


Blatantly Obvious

by Dafna536



Category: Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Peter Parker Does What He Whants, Puppy Love, Tony Stark Has Issues, Tony Stark Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-09
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-01-31 03:38:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12673623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dafna536/pseuds/Dafna536
Summary: Peter admires Tony Stark, who wouldn't? He thinks of him a lot – it is perfectly normal – how can it be any different, when you meet an idol of millions? It's impossible to wish anything other than to attract his attention, working hard to deserve the right of standing shoulder to shoulder with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [До смешного очевидно](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/336216) by Chronic.Youth. 



> Thanks to [Problematic-and-dark-otps](https://problematic-and-dark-otps.tumblr.com/) for betaing this fic.

Peter flew through the streets, narrowly missing brick corners and air conditioner blocks. The robber had dashed away through the crowd and fled into the jungle of narrow courtyards. Every second here Peter risked getting entangled in a stretched clothesline or plowing flowerpot earth on someone's balcony with his nose.

He would not be surprised if one of those happened.

Peter had no idea, why in the hell, having the ability to crawl on the ceiling and inhuman reflexes, he still managed to stumble in his own feet, trip here and there, demolish things on the way of his flight, causing a lot of damage to flowerbeds, neatly mowed lawns and other property of respectable citizens, imprudently forgotten in the courtyards. His clumsiness grew with the level of his disquiet. In fact – if everything were true then – press conference, journalists, he would probably stutter in a thin, wounded voice, carry nonsense, fall from the pulpit, or even get scared and flee through the nearest window.

He caught a glimpse of the robber's back round the corner and noticed from above, that the fool was running right into a blind alley. Peter jumped down, landed, using his heels like brakes, and rushed after him. His webbing twined around the hapless runner, and the guy found himself hanging upside down from a balcony. Peter scribbled a note to the police on a piece of paper, sticked to the robber’s chest, while the guy was struggling and flailing in his web. Peter even read him a lecture, mimicking Captain America’s voice, about how it was really bad to steal purses from respectable old ladies.

At that moment Peter was not clumsy or awkward, he was a superhero, the Spider-Man in a marvelous suit, designed by the one and only Tony Stark personally. However, imagine him on the Avengers’ base? Atrocious horror.

No, he was not really shy or nervous about Avengers, in the end – no one could compare to Tony Stark. Peter could reside in the company of Earth superheroes, bombarding them with questions, admiring every one of them – he was not ashamed of being their fan. Or about his own age. Well, they all knew how old was he. He just did not want to be a foolish teenager under their feet all along. 

Peter could not imagine, for example, Tony Stark not being Tony Stark in his fifteen years. For sure, back then, he was the same confident, sarcastic, rich, genius, cocky, classy and smart man. And he thought Peter would be better than him? Seriously? There was nothing in the world Peter wished more than that. To be like Tony Stark. Did anybody still believe that teenagers wanted to follow the example of Captain America? Of course, super strength and the shield are cool, Cap can scatter his enemies like skittles, and kids at primary school still love him. But common boys don’t want to be Captain America.They want gobs of money, fancy cars, public admiration and the galls to do anything at their sweet will. ”I will serve this great nation at the pleasure of myself. If there’s one thing I’ve proven it’s that you can count on me to pleasure myself.” That’s Stark. That is what so great about him. When the Iron man came to him with an offer to kick Captain’s ass, Peter fell hook, line and sinker. Would it be the other way around, if Cap told him that Iron Man was nuts and needed to be tamed, Peter would surely refuse.

Peter tried as hard as he could not just somersault in his webbings among skyscrapers, smacking up criminals – that he did easily, he yearned to be bold, charming and cool. Like “ha-ha”-ing, making some snarky remarks and idle chit-chat, while your enemies scattered around, pleading for mercy. With dainty movements – his own style, aware of his awesomeness – Tony Stark, after saving dozens of people and the ferry, stepped out of his suit as flawless as ever, like a cover model. And Peter acted like a frightened girl, backing away, almost crying. Stark was right – that stupid t-shirt about surviving NY was just the right type of clothes for losers like him.

Currently he was fine, though still definitely sucked in fashioning his own style. During fights and chases criminals laughed at him, telling him his jokes were dumb, his voice piping and girly. Sometimes, after his raids, he fell face down into a pillow, wondering, why even super strengths, six pack on your stomach and a multi-million-dollar suit couldn’t make you cool. As a person. Like Stark. To make wisecrack jokes here and there, dress classy, move gracefully, to be loved by girls and give the jeebies to all around you – at least that was the impact Stark had on him, Peter stopped thinking and speaking coherently in his presence. 

If Peter became Avenger for real, would there be flocks of fans and children in Spider-Man costumes on Halloween?

***

“If I screw up and Mister Stark scolds me again, I’m gonna die.” Peter confessed to Ned from under a pillow. No longer than a few hours ago Peter was chasing jewelry shop robbers with a bag full of gold foofaraws. He had managed to snatch the loot with his web and, without estimating his strength, casted it into a nearby alley. After tying down the robbers, he scoured through the block just to find nothing. No sign of the damn bag. He would not be surprised if the news bulletins on this incident reported that Spider-Man had taken the jewelry himself and fled the scene. 

“Crap," Peter mumbled, still hiding under the pillow from the outside world. "It's just hilarious," Despite his phrasing, he was almost crying. "What Avenger would make such a blunder? Can you imagine Iron Man losing Loki's scepter while chasing Loki?"

"Yeah, Avengers just accidentally destroyed skyscrapers and whole city quarters, endangered dozens of people because of their actions, did they not?" Ned asked cheerfully, chewing on something again. Peter heard his champing behind him.

"That's different." He snapped. "Avengers act on a planet scale, solve international problems, while I can't even prevent a robbery without some collateral damage."

What would he call it in a daily report to Happy? The "collateral damage"? Should he say, he is sorry, and that's it? And the matter was serious to some extent – not hijacking a bicycle or saving a cat stuck in a tree. 

When will he finally grow up? Peter sometimes asked himself about this, secretly and in a whisper, at the time when he did not yell at everyone, that he was already an adult, and treating him like a child was not necessary.

When will he become an adult, confident in himself and his powers, so that he would not feel himself a fool in the presence of people like Stark? Although, frankly, there were no people like Stark.

 

“Don’t sweat it, young Robin Hood. You’ve made some slum dweller happy, so what’s the problem? You’re breaking into a new level – rob from the rich, give to the poor – that’s classic, coming back to the origins. My congratulations!” Stark had unexpectedly send him a voice message after his nervous stuttering report to Happy. Stark sounded very amused and judging by his voice was having hard time fighting laughter. "Seriously though, Peter, I will repay the damage to the shop if your aggravated sense of justice keeps you up at night. You sounded on the verge of tears, so I called you to soothe you personally. Just don’t… you know… scamper about, punching out jewels out of elderlings and fishy-looking hobos. Don’t aggravate. If you screwed up, don’t do anything to turn a little flaw into a huge growing snowball of shit. Roger that? That’s my invaluable superhero admonition, based on trials and errors of the past. Not mine errors though – mostly ones of my precious colleges.”

There he was – confident even about his own mistakes. Peter had choked on air, when he opened the message and realized that it was from Stark himself. How does he never call to praise him personally? Now it looked like Stark was perfectly aware of all his failures, and it didn’t trouble him to spend his precious time on a sapiential remark, making sure Peter wouldn't screw up more, than he had already have. Like Peter was a time-bomb and Stark was uncertain of how to approach him – had tried a stick, and now it was a turn for carrot .

Peter absently played the message again. It felt like he wanted to make sure he really had personal Stark’s voice record, not some interview, replicated on YouTube. Such a folly. What if he had agreed joining Avengers?.He would live on the Avengers’ Base (certainly May would allow him that, wouldn’t she?), he would see them every day, socialize, learn from Stark himself. 

God, most Avengers were outlaw, Colonel Rhodes was injured, Stark certainly needed new members, and Peter acted like a complete idiot. Perhaps he failed Stark by giving him his selfish “I don’t want to, I’m not ready yet, I want to be anonymous”, which read short “I’m scared”. Telling him now that he had changed his mind would make him look even more foolish. Somehow Stark’s opinion on that matter meant more than doing the right thing. 

Peter closed his eyes, giving up into his misery. Outside the window the sun of his sixteenth summer was flabbily melting up tarmac. Ned had left after finishing off his aunt’s cookies and poking at Peter about the damn bag again. May had left for Philadelphia and wasn’t coming back in a few weeks. Peter was moping in his room, stewing in his own thoughts – everything went over the left shoulder. Liz had moved and some nasty inner voice of his was telling him often, that he could have come to her earlier, long before he knew who her father was. But he would certainly have failed anyway, because he does not know how to communicate with girls and of course he would have ruined everything. More and more often, Peter imagined how easy it would be to win Liz, if he was not a hopeless loser – if he looked, thought, behaved, – as he had dreamed – like Tony Stark.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm endlessly thankful to [Weekend-Writer](https://weekend-writer.tumblr.com/) for betaing this chapter.

Peter was slowly waking up from a slumber. He was squinting in the sun, tossing and trying to pull the blanket over his head. He had the most bizarre dream. So ridiculous that coming into his senses and remembering it, Peter felt excruciating shame. And when you are ashamed of your own dream, it's rather unhealthy. But when you dream about Tony Stark having sex with a random girl – it is a catastrophe. It was surely abnormal, accidental splashes of his sore subconsciousness, instigated by his obsessive thoughts about the ways Stark had been seducing girls… and it gave him a morning wood.

Gasping, Peter rolled over and pulled his knees up to his chest. There was no relief. He could not bring himself to touch his cock because...well...because there was Tony Stark in his dream, and Peter was ashamed. He had to come with some acceptable explanation for it first.

The girl in his dream that enfolded her legs around Stark's torso and his perfectly straight back was moaning loudly, nibbling at his ear, convulsively crossing her ankles, while Tony hammered her into the bed. Peter did not understand why Tony was there and not he himself, as sometimes ... always, in any dreams, that Peter had about all sorts of girls, mostly about Liz, yes. He rolled over onto his stomach and rubbed himself against the mattress, biting his lip and restraining a groan. 

Okay. He had thought too much about being like Mr. Stark. He just had to imagine himself in Stark's place – that's why all of this happened in the first place. He probably dreamed that it was him – like Stark, because only Tony Stark could fuck girls perfectly; although how would Peter know, except that all Tony Stark did was perfect.

 

Peter had an urgent need to masturbate, and at the same time needed to stop repeating "Tony Stark" in his head, because these two actions happening simultaneously were absolutely unacceptable.

 

He fidgeted for a while on the mattress and rubbed against the bed, trying to conjure up an image of Liz, or at least that girl from the dream he must have gotten so turned on about. But the image of the girl was vague and schematic – apart from her legs on Stark's lower back, Peter could not remember anything, not even the length and color of her hair.

When Peter finally turned over on his back and shoved his hand under the elastic band of his panties, touching himself hesitantly, his mind was blank of images except for a huge neon sign: "Do not think of Tony Stark." That was the most inane and mechanic jerking off in Peter’s life. 

 

***

The morning was a bust from the very beginning, even without considering the account of his awakening. Peter was trying so hard to forget it that ended up constantly thinking about it. He burned his eggs and brushed off a cup of coffee from the table – he managed to catch it on the fly, but the coffee still splashed all over his T-shirt because his movement was too rapid. He pulled off his T-shirt, deftly threw it into the basket of dirty laundry, put the cup in the sink until better times, and took another cup to make coffee again.ashing dishes with no one at home to oversee that was absolutely devoid of logic.

An immensely meaningful morning.

No mood for idling.  
No mood for watching movies.  
No mood for tinkering his computer.  
Absolutely not a bit of a mood for school science projects.  
The stupid dream had ruined it all.

Peter counted that incident as something definitely abnormall he felt confused and miserable. Like – you know yourself from soup to nuts, but then your subconsciousness cut up a dido, and you look at yourself in the mirror and see a stranger, completely hazy of what to expect from him.

Peter decided to patrol the streets, nevermind, that it was morning. Even if he would not stumble on a morning revelry of crime, the very feeling of speed and flight he had from swinging from roof to roof would air his brains and allow him to forget everything. Just action, simple action.

He finished his coffee, skimming through the news headlines on the phone and listening to the TV in the background. He was about to walk to his room, pick up the suit and go to some uninhabited alley to change his clothes. Because, of course, the Spider-Man starting off from the window of their apartment during the day would be a big surprise for his neighbors.

The doorbell stopped him. Peter shrugged his shoulders, wondering who was the morning visitor – a gesture purely instinctive, after all, no one could see him.  
Most likely, it was Ned, who – what a coincidence – changed his habit of not waking up on vacation before noon. Peter, not really enthusiastic and mentally postponing his patrol for an indefinite length of time, trudged to open the door.

Happy Hogan was nervously swaying from heels to toes on his doorstep.

Peter was so shocked that if he still had a cup of coffee in his hand, he would surely have dropped it again. Likely all over Happy’s jacket, with his luck – that could not happen any other way.

"Don’t bother saying anything, the boss wants to see you." Happy rolled his eyes instead of greeting, clearly annoyance about being here in Peter's apartment with Peter. " It's not up for discussion. Boss ordered me to take you to the Base.”

"Er, hello," Peter mumbled, not having thought of anything better. "I'll get ready then. Would you like to wait in the living room?”

"I'll wait in the car," Happy cut off, measuring Peter's apartment with such a look that the aunt's favorite flowers seemed to sag on the windowsill.

***

 

"Peter Parker is in the building." A melodic artificial voice announced, coming out of nowhere and dissolving into the empty corridors of the Avenger’s base. Peter tried to keep up with Happy and still managed to trudge with a drooping look on his face. He had come to the conclusion that, despite his amused message, Stark was angry at him because of his misdeed with the lost jewelry bag. There was a good chance Stark would deprive him of his suit again. Why else would Peter be here?

Another door slid open, and Happy trotted into a big room, right to the spiral staircase leading down through the floor.

“Mr.Stark's workshop, " Happy commented, then raised his head to the ceiling. "FRIDAY, tell the boss that the kid is here.”

“You’re not allowed in there." That was to Peter, still without looking at him. "Sit on the couch, if you like. Don't touch anything. Don't break anything.”

 

Peter looked around. The room above the workshop was a lounge with several couches, a huge TV-screen the size of the wall, and coffee tables with dried lowers, which were undoubtedly masterpieces of design art. The room was divided into several areas with aquarium-like glass walls – that what Peter had called it – though there were no fish behind the glass, just circulating water highlighted with different colors.   
Peter cautiously took a seat on the nearest couch. He caught the sound of doors sliding open and approaching footsteps. Then he saw Tony Stark climbing upstairs, wiping machine oil his hands off with a greasy rag. Several seconds later with the feeling of dissonance, Peter realised that it was the first time he saw Stark without one of his shamelessly expensive suits on – be it Armani or Iron Man armour. He was wearing a washed-out t-shirt with a rock-band logo; the slightly tousled hair gave him a very domestic look. Even without a pricey jacket that cost more than Peter's whole life, Tony Stark looked fantastic. And maybe even better than that. The tight T-shirt made him many times more attractive than stylish suits because of its tightness. 

While Tony was diligently rubbing off a particularly worn-in stain on the palm of his hand, Peter watched his muscles flexing under the cloth and, for some reason, all thoughts had left his head – Peter just stared. He was not able not to feel pure admiration at the sight of this man.

Tony looked good – not age, not the circumstances reflected on him – at the moment, his appearance was more harmonious than when he acted on cameras at official events, trying to amuse everyone.

Peter heightened senses also caught the smell of his body, besides the usual smell of the expensive Stark’s cologne – and there was nothing repulsive about it. That was not a sharp smell of perspiration of a long time working man – Tony Stark smelt so... exciting and spicy that the hairs on Peter's arms stood on end.

Peter did not even realize that Mr. Stark had been talking to him for a while.

"...so I thought that life in the absence of the charming aunt would be too good for you, and decided to ruin the layout," Stark concluded. He walked over, leaned across the coffee table and moved up a bowl that stood on the other edge to Peter. 

"Candy?"

Peter pressed himself into the cushions and blurted out, "Happy said not to touch anything."

_What an incredible nonsense._ It was just that Stark was so close; his brain refused to function and instead voiced the first thing that came to his mind.

"Holy curls of Thor! What a monster to forbid sweets from children." Tony shook his head at Happy jokingly. "Happs is a bit overzealous at times. Don’t take offense" Tony whispered to Peter conspiratorially. Bufаooning, pretending he’s sharing a great secret that Hogan should not hear. Almost at his ear. _Leaning closer._

 

"You were saying, Mr. Stark?" Peter stammered in a high-pitched voice, which must have seemed even more girly, than usual. He was tempted to add something like "by the way, you look cool, Mr. Stark," or "you know, Mr. Stark, a t-shirt with engine oil stains looks better on you than designer suits", but it would be a total failure. Just like the bumbling teen Tony Stark probably saw him as. 

Tony ruffled his hair, crouched on the back seat of the couch where Peter was sitting, and suddenly even slightly stooped – for the first time in Peter's memory. Tony Stark always had a perfectly straight back.

“You see, kid, something big is coming. The time, when I could give a command to bear a hand even to you. Well, to cover civilians, snatch children and old women from under the blow, to contribute as much as possible. Do not be afraid,” Tony said, raising his finger. “You won’t be in serious battle, but there could be a time when we need all the help we can get. And, well, I want you to train in some basic skills to confront serious opponents. You know, all those crazy alien freaks, kind of like chitauri – you never know what to expect of them; it’s not some pickpockets from Queens. You don't have to accept this responsibility. Being an Avenger isn't for everyone; don't feel obligated to accept what you don't feel ready for. But this base is perfectly suited for training. And while you still dawdling so imprudently unattended, I propose that you live and train here. Yes, that’s the bastard I am, even worse than they write in the yellow press. Encroached on a sacred ground – summer vacation and the house at your disposal in the absence of adults. Come on, Spidey-boy, do not be shy, speak up freely – how many boozes have I ruined for you and your friends?”

When Tony started talking, it was absolutely impossible to stop his inspired chatter. He gibbered, jabbered, all cheerful, confident, joking and jesting, being at the same time quite firm about the message he was getting over.

Peter could see clearly that despite the seeming carelessness in Mr. Stark's voice, everything was frighteningly serious. There was a complete and inevitable disaster coming. but there were no Avengers at the moment they were scattered all over the world. And Peter had refused to join them in those difficult times.

Because _he wasn’t ready yet,_ like a schoolgirl before her first time.

"Mr. Stark, I ..." Peter cleared his throat when his voice still sounded thin and brittle. It was vital to show Mr. Stark that he was not a coward. He should say ... Peter did not really know what to say. “I'm not afraid, and if everything goes bad ... Then there’s no question. I'm ready to join the Avengers any time you need me, If it is required to protect people, then that’s what I’ll do.. I ... I'm not a child, I know that I have to be ready to die for others. When I put on that suit – another one or my own- I recognize that fact. I'm not afraid, Mr. Stark. I am ready to fight and I’m fully aware of the risks.”

Tony frowned at Peter and, it seemed, slouched even more. His posture was careless a and stooping Tony, strangely enough, looked no worse than Tony with his straight back. He gave off an aura of weariness from the problems of the world, yet that still did not spoil him. Peter wished he could just hug him and flatten that tight wrinkle above the bridge of his nose that meant Tony was concerned and annoyed.

"What a decadent philosophy, Spidey." Stark's voice broke through to Peter, who was too busy admiring the man. “I’m inviting you to the Avengers, letting you train on the base, and giving you the suit on one condition only; do not die on my shift.”

Peter opened his mouth, hesitated, and could not find an answer. What was there to say to that? His throat clenched and, suddenly, he could only nod convulsively.

Tony smiled, reached out his hand and patted Peter's hair in a very natural, paternal, caring gesture. Peter felt like he was electrocuted through this touch. He rocked after Stark's hand, demanding more, instantly embarrassed at his inability to breathe, almost to tears.   
Peter had never experienced such a tormenting longing; not even what he’d felt for Liz. He went hot and cold and he was trembling. Just because of Tony Stark's casual touch to his hair, Peter was nearly hard, but how could you not be excited when your childhood idol wanted to take care of you, demanded that you not die, and gently caressed your head?

***  
Later in the evening, Peter, worn to a frazzle by the events of the day - even if the day only involved getting acquainted with the Base and training facilities - laid down on the crispy fresh sheets of his unbelievably huge bed in his high-tech apartment, wished Friday good night, and finally fell asleep.

Before that, of course, he had made a thorough exploration of the room allotted to him, lengthwise and crosswise, including the ceiling. It had an amazing bed with the most comfortable mattress in the world, a computer desk, and a computer with high-tech parameters that exceeded his wildest expectations, several tablets, and a wardrobe with a huge mirror. The carpet was so soft that his high sensitivity registered it like walking on the feathers of angels. A plasma TV-set in front of the bed, speakers mounted with absolute room acoustics, lights, operated by voice commands, which included: a soft half-light from the bottom, bright daylight, nightlights above the bed, lamp above the computer table, and there were two more nightstands. There were slippers in the closet, a robe and pajamas which were muffled gray, pleasant to the touch and, it seemed, awfully expensive. FRIDAY notified Peter that he could get any number of new things he would have need of such as underwear, clothes and items of personal hygiene because Happy Hogan had not bothered to warn him that he would be leaving for a while and had not advised him to collect a bag.

The room was painted neutral colors, which did not diminish Peter's delight at all. Though the room was devoid of individuality and resembled a guest room, it was an incredibly expensive guest room with incredible amount of tech.

A bunch of new, less modern but popular video games were already loaded on the computer – although Peter had never been particularly fond of them, FRIDAY or whoever was responsible for it had probably taken into account that a teenager would live here.

In short, Peter researched all the room’s details countless times - and maybe even climbed to the ceiling with delight in the absolute sense of the word - but in the end he felt himself mentally and physically squeezed out in the very best possible sense, so he lay down on the crisp fresh sheets of his fucking cool bed in his high-tech apartment, wished Friday good night, and finally fell asleep.

***

He dreamed of kneeling before Tony Stark, pressing his face against the oil stains of Tony’s T-shirt, feeling his muscles through the fabric, smelling the stupefying odor of Tony. 

Peter is rubbing his cheek with a muffled groans lower and lower until he goes down to the groin. Tony is hard, and this fact turns Peter on more than hundreds of scenarios of the most depraved porn with crowds of naked girls. Peter squeezes in the groin, smells the smell, heavy, thick – Tony smells enticing Peter senses his mouth watering - he wants this so much.Tony's hand buries into Peter's hair, tenderly flutters, then slides to the chin – Tony makes him raise his head. Peter looks at Tony Stark from the bottom up, in the eyes of Tony’s greedy anticipation, languor, drunk excitement - Peter would die happy knowing that Tony had looked at him like that. Tony runs his knuckles over Peter's cheekbone, Peter swallows – he will explode with impatience – and his unruly trembling fingers unbutton Tony's belt.


	3. Chapter 3

Fuck.  
Fuck-fuck-fuck.

At first, Peter woke up to the feeling that he had experienced the most tremendous orgasm in his life, both in a dream and in reality as well, with the stickiness in his pants as a pleasant evidence. Peter sighed happily, stretching out and relaxing in an unusually comfortable bed, intending to drown in a blissful post-orgasmic languor… and realized that he was hopelessly, incorrigibly fucked up. Without the slightest chance to rewind.

He jumped out of bed with the speed of a flying bullet to found himself in the bathroom attached to his room before an average person could blink. The lights turned on automatically, a fraction of a second later, and Peter hovered over the sink, staring stupidly at himself in the mirror.

"Good morning, Mr. Parker. It's four thirty in the morning. The weather is calm, cloudless, it’s sunrise, the sun is three degrees behind the horizon, the temperature is sixty seven degrees Fahrenheit.”

Peter dashed away and crashed painfully into the wall across the mirror. Sometimes his lightning reactions caused more problems than advantages.

"F-Friday?" Peter whimpered weakly at the ceiling. "Are you everywhere?"

Peter had already known that FRIDAY was, in fact, everywhere, they had exchanged civilities last night before he went to bed. But now the AI neighborhood revealed its unpleasant side. AI, it seemed, was constantly watching everything happening on the premises, never going into a "sleep mode". What could FRIDAY know about teenage pollutions, could one asked, for example, to replace bed linen without telling anyone of the fact? How could it happen that his room had a personal bathroom with a shower, but there was no damn tiny little washing machine? FRIDAY was the brainchild and favorite of Tony Stark, so what exactly did she tell him about the guests of the Base and their actions? Had it seen Peter came in his sleep? Did it realize what that was?

“You will find a spare change of underwear in the bedside table by the bed. The bed linen will be rearranged in your absence by the cleaner-bots. I also deem it necessary to acknowledge you, Mr. Parker, that I am not authorized to comment on or to disclose any information, concerning private life of the residents, it is considered unethical and unacceptable according to my protocols. I am not programmed to make value judgments, therefore you do not need to feel embarrassed. I’m telling you this guided by the knowledge that adolescents tend to be worrywart when it comes to natural intimate processes. Mr. Parker, I'm just the Base's software, you do not have to be embarrassed by me, as you are not ashamed of the voice in the navigator or Google-requests.”

However, no matter how much FRIDAY pretended to be a mindless program, it had just literally voiced Peter's thoughts and answered all unsolicited questions. Peter screwed his eyes until he could see flickering spots behind his eyelids ― he didn’t feel half as ashamed in front of Friday, as didin front of his own consciousness.

The hell with Friday. Let it think whatever it wants about the fact that Peter was experiencing nocturnal pollutions, like most teenagers in the world. In the end, it didn’t not know what exactly Peter had been dreaming of.

Peter put his head in his hands and buried his elbows in the sink, trying to catch his breath.

"Friday," he forced himself to mutter through his fingers. "Please, don’t tell anyone I’m awake. I know, I have a lot of work, trainings, but ... please, give me just a couple of hours, do not let anyone bother me.”

_Let no one never ever bother me._

"Do not worry, Mr. Parker," AI’s melodic voice answered. "I suppose, Mr. Stark will not be awake till noon, and earlier he had expressed a wish to be present at your first training, because in his opinion I quote ‘there will be something to laugh at from the heart’. Therefore, I'm sure you have more than a couple of hours at your personal disposal. I remind you, it's four thirty-eight in the morning. You are free to visit the kitchen at any time and have breakfast, regardless of whether Mr. Stark is awake or not. Also, you can freely navigate the territory of the Base, except the closed areas and private apartments of other Avengers.”

"Yes, yes, Friday, thank you very much, but I'm not hungry, I don’t want to eat," Peter answered somewhat sharply, still hiding his face in his hands.

He felt _nauseous_ , no way he could stomach breakfast.

Friday went tactfully silent and now the only sound in the bathroom was Peter's intermittent hysterical breathing.

Fuck.

He could not withstand his miserable face in the mirror anymore. Peter trampled on a spot, then took off his new gray expensive pajamas, pulled his pants down along with his underwear, threw everything on the floor and stepped into the shower cubicle, closing the doors behind him. 

But instead of taking a shower, Peter slid down the glass wall and sat on the cold marble floor of the cubicle, absently staring at the tiles. There were numerous sets of buttons and modes on the shower panel. Peter looked closely. A musical shower? Really? However, he could not bring himself to think about it for more than a second.

That was the end. Finish. He could no longer delay, wriggle, push it to the back of his subconsciousness, he could not think of anything except: ‘What the heck was that?!’

Peter was absolutely sure that he had not previously experienced a sexual attraction to men. Had he not seen naked men or boys? Had men’s cocks ever drawn his attention in reality or while he was watching porn? Had he always looked only at the girls during those videos? Hell, yes! Peter had always remained indifferent to any kinds of naked males. He watched other guys at school locker room and they were ... just guys, like Peter himself, nothing special, nothing sexual about them.

Even now, after that ridiculous dream (the second one of late), Peter could imagine most beautiful men of the world and feel absolutely indifferent: Brad Pitt, Johnny Depp, Tom Cruise ... hell, Peter somehow never singled out any actor. Perhaps Thor or Steve Rogers? But after the recent events, the famous Captain seemed annoying, his rectitude and tediousness negating all his physical beauty. Guys and men ― celebrities, talented actors, superheroes and skillful fighters – they all were just what they were. He could not imagine anyone of them as an object of sexual attraction – be they dressed, undressed, underdressed or in any other possible form.

Unfortunately, through all those pitiful attempts to recall "the most popular handsome guy", “famous cover models", "the list of the most beautiful men on the planet", the first name, that his memory brought up helpfully every time, was, of course, "Tony Stark."  
Peter hugged his knees and squeezed his eyes in the agony of scorching shame, though there was no one around, who knew of Peter's thoughts or could condemn him.

Okay, well, naked Tony Stark might not leave Peter indifferent unlike all the other celebrities on his list. And no, he would not think of naked Stark, and about the fact, that he had sucked him off in his dream and almost went crazy for how good it felt.

_How the fuck can you ever understand or accept anything like that?_

And why should it happen now, while he was stuck at the Avengers Base of all places?!

If he had been at home, he would have closed the door to his room, burrow himself in a blanket, refuse to go out and see anyone, wallowing in his misery. He would be lying in his bed for the whole day, having no strength to perform simplest actions, but somehow he would rub through, get over his shock and live on. With time, things get easy, and he could probably even survive the great revelation of getting off in his dream, giving head to Tony Stark.

He survived the death of his beloved uncle, the building crashed on top of him and sending his school sweetheart’s father to jail. There were things much worse out there than his stupid bizarre dreams. And soon even more terrible things were to come.  
Peter should be ready for it.

That's why he couldn’t bury himself in a blanket and reflect, rethinking his own sexual preferences and his fucked-up head. Peter should leave the room looking blithe, fresh and sufficiently interested in the surrounding world, careful enough to adequately show off in training and not disappoint Mr. Stark.

Peter laughed hysterically. "Whatever fucking happening in your soul and in your head, just don’t disappoint Mr. Stark. So nice of you, Peter!"

In the end, it was not Stark’s fault, Peter wanted to suck him off. That he wanted to feel his body over him, wanted Stark to drive him into a mattress just like that girl in his dream, to see his face, the same excited, demanding eyes, Tony breathing hotly over his neck, so that ...  
Stop! That definitely wasn’t in his dream, it's ...What was Tony Stark to Peter, if he, who always dreamed of sleeping with a nice sweet girl, felt his knees buckle just at the thought of having sex with Tony Stark?

Peter had never really thought about the technical side of the process when two men were involved. Tony Stark aside and that part seemed even disgusting. Then why? Where was this sudden desire coming from? 

Peter pinched the bridge of his nose in silent desperation. He should take a shower, put his thoughts in order, have breakfast and go to the training halls, no matter how bad he felt.  
Perhaps it was for the best, maybe he would get a nice beating on the head, which would help him to erase his short-term memory, including this night and the morning after.  
In any case, he would be distracted and completely focused on action, and the training would help him save lives in the foreseeable future, many lives. The more people he saved, the more reasons he would have to not hate himself after his horrendous discoveries.

***

A spare change of underwear in the drawer happened to be silk boxers, and Peter once again wondered, how much did everything cost here? He had never worn expensive clothes before and assumed that the whole point of it was just making a customer pay fabulous money for a brand. This time Peter had the opportunity to ascertain himself that expensive high-quality things felt quite different even to his skin.

Peter certainly had no wish to sleep (and even more so - did not want to see any more dreams), he had zero enthusiasm for exploring the Base and did not want to mindlessly watch TV or play video games. He fumbled in the room until nine in the morning, forcing himself to turn on the tablet and plunge into random scientific articles - trying to focus completely on the text before his eyes, without thinking of anything else.

At nine he took advantage of FRIDAY’s gracious directions to the kitchen.  
The kitchen was ... There was everything one could wish for: a multi-compartment refrigerator, larger than Peter's closet, stocked with vacuum-packed dishes of all sorts, a coffee machine with a variety of coffee beverages, Starbucks would envy. An ice cream machine. Peter hovered, trying to convince himself he was certainly an adult, but was unable to overcome irrational childish delight.

Peter had tried a lemon ice cream, pistachio, chocolate horn, and was substituting another waffle cup for vanilla filler, when he heard loud metallic steps in the corridor. He tensed, expecting to see ... Tony Stark in his suit? robot cleaners? what they look like at all? training bots? He turned around and made several steps to the center of the kitchen, so that that there would be a huge table stretching across the entire room between him and whoever was going to enter, and froze, stupidly clutching a half-filled horn in his hand.

With slow measured steps and obvious effort, there came in and immediately leaned heavily on the table ..

"Colonel Rhodes? Ah, hello, good morning, sir." Peter bolted himself upright and almost dropped the ill-fated horn. "I'm Pe ..." he did some bizarre manipulations to keep the ice cream inside the horn, "Peter Parker, you probably don’t know me ..."

"I know, who you are, lad," The Colonel gave him a friendly tired smile. He was wearing a complex prostheses, which looked like the legs of the Warmaster's costume without the outer shell. He obviously had troubles in making it obeying him. "Tony keeps the secret of your personality, but he had warned me. I hope you don’t mind. Perhaps we will train together. I can control the Warmaster, and this is almost the only possibility to... " A painful spasm passed over the Colonel's face, "to move free and easy. But these things," he pointed down at the prosthesis, "are also gradually obeying me. In any case, to hang around here and train hard seems our common cause now, isn’t it, little one?”

Peter nodded. He wanted to ask about the Colonel’s health - he had been there when Rhodes was hospitalized, had seen the depression and impotence on Tony Stark’s face, remorse in Vision’s eyes - although the android should have been able to recognize he wasn’t the one to blame in that situation.

However, any questions about health at the moment seemed tactless, so Peter took a bite off the waffle horn and asked: “And what ... all these training systems ... Are they really that horrifying?”

***

“Okay, and... Damn! What a speed!”

Peter shot his cobweb aiming at another ball sweeping around him; it dodged with insulting ease and stung Peter in turn with electric discharge.

"They look like that," Peter performed a series of weird culbits under the ceiling, because there were a lot of balls and now they were attacking him all at once. His anxiety wouldn't let him cease chatting, “like a droid that trained Luke Skywalker, when he tried to handle lightsaber, only they are much smaller, and much, much faster ... ah! Ouch! Damn!”

Colonel Rhodes watched him approvingly from separated observation zone at the entrance to the training hall.

"You're doing great, lad," he said through the microphone. “It's amazing! I still can’t believe that a man with such abilities is just a teenager. I can not decide for myself: whether it was right that Avengers took you under their wing, or this will just give you a bunch of unnecessary problems.”

"Oh, don’t worry, Colonel!" Peter caught a handful of balls into his web and hung them up to the ceiling as a fancy decoration. Unfortunately, even cobwebbed, the balls continued shooting at random directions. "I’m perfectly capable of finding troubles without the Avengers initiative. Ouch!” As in confirmation of his words, Peter slipped on the padded non-functioning ball and crashed, allowing himself to be pelleted by a whole cloud of buzzing round bastards.

"Oh, have you started a party without me?"

Peter was covering himself with his hands from the attacks, resenting mentally at why Tony Stark should have come at the exact moment Peter collapsed disgracefully to the floor.  
Droids, obeying some manipulations of the control panel, stopped shooting and soared to the ceiling. Peter, exasperated by dodging his head, trying to hide his face from attacks, and feeling the pain from electric punctures all over his body, stood up, hesitated ... and finally turned to the observation deck, where, judging by the greeting, Mr. Stark had just joined Colonel Rhodes.

Stark brought a folding chair, a bucket of popcorn and a bottle of whiskey. Apparently, trying to emphasize his role of an idle spectator, wallowing in boredom and not a bit interested in Spider's training. He put on a white polo shirt with short sleeves, not bothering to button it up. 

Peter noticed the edge of a thin scar on Stark's chest in the neckline of his shirt. He blinked. Oh, no. He will not scrutinize Tony Stark's scars, Tony Stark's necklines or anything else, he should be focused in case the droids would attack him again.

“I’ve been anticipating an epic battle,” Tony jiggled his hand with the bucket of popcorn. “and here I come to see you defeated by the bunch of balls from a children sandbox?”

"I, um ... I’m sorry, Mr. Stark," Peter mumbled guiltily from under the mask.

“Come on, Tony, the guy is good,” The Colonel intercepted. “And those toys are a triffle for him. He crashed once, it happens to the best of us.”  
.  
Stark playfully ran his fingers across the control panel.

“Should we finish the warm-up and release a real opponent? Hey, little arthropod, it will not cause you any significant damage and attacks with low-power electric discharges, but if you feel it’s too much, just shout. Okay?”

So that had been a warm-up? Peter swallowed. Super-deft droid-balls, that were shooting and moving much faster than him had worn him out already. They weren’t as terrible as chitauri-monsters, who would be shocking just by its unearthy appearance, but considering its speed and co-operation, Peter would have classified those things as serious opponents. Perhaps, the reason of his failure was the fact that Peter had never fought anything like this before. Perhaps, that was exactly why Mr. Stark insisted on his training.

_He had to learn how to fight something he had not yet encountered._

The buckets of the hatch in the floor, from where the flocks of droids had flown out before, opened. There was a buzz of an elevator transporting someone (or rather something) from below, Peter crouched and threw up his hands, ready to meet the enemy.

The object that rose from the hatch looked strange and unrecognizable at first, but in a second it came into motion, straightened up, emerging a wave of metallic clanking, and a man-shaped robot bristled at Peter with machine guns instead of arms and barrels on his shoulders.

"It shoots electricity," Stark reminded, apparently considering machine guns looked like a real threat and could scare Peter off.

The robot rushed to Peter, and after that he had no time for anything except jumping, pirouettes, shooting and jumping again. The hall they were fighting in was huge with a lot of free space, still Peter couldn’t shake it off his tail. He missed again. The robot seemed to be shooting everywhere and climbed the walls no worse than Peter himself. All Peter’s previous opponents, except the Vulture, could only shoot and run. With human speed. 

Discharge, another discharge, ouch, right in the shoulder! Peter was managing another somersault when it hit him, he lost coordination and, waving his arms pathetically, fell down. He was caught at the very floor and gently put down by the same robot, who somehow turned out to be near when a second ago he was at the other end of the unreasonably huge training ground.

Behind the glass Stark applauded ostentatiously.

“That’s for him. For an excellent catch of falling Spiders.”

Peter shifted guiltily from foot to foot. How long had he lasted? A minute? Two? ‘Trust me with serious business, Mr. Stark. I'm a responsible adult. I can handle everything, Mr. Stark.’  
Damn. What a fool.

"Lighten up, Spidey." Stark suddenly put down the glass of whiskey and the popcorn bucket, got up and went out into the training hall. He waved his arm in the air in a conductor's style, and an Iron Man glove dived onto his hand; then another one followed - they flew out through the entrance out of the Base corridors and followed Tony through the same sliding door, barely missing Colonel Rhodes’s head.

"Rowdy, watch out!" Stark warned belatedly, when the suit's boots flew to him forcing the Colonel to crouch closer to the control panel. “This _Cutie_ makes all Avengers sweat, it had deserved a medal already for the sheer number of kicked asses. Specially designed to have extremely fast attacks. Only Wanda and Vision could knock him out pretty easily, the rest had to work hard for it. Well, we had never arranged the Cutie to spar with Hulk, of course, that would be a hopeless venture.”

Stark took off and tried to make a circle, balancing on the repulsors. It seemed he did not deem it necessary to call the rest of the suit.

“The trick is that almost every one of us has a destructive strike force that can smash this baby into a pile of trash. It is enough to hit the target once. For me - by a glove, for Thor - by his hammer, for Clint - by an arrow in its head or chest.“ Cap, probably, could have a good use of his shield, but Tony stopped his associative series. “And you only have speed, agility and cobwebs. Which is easily permeable for its guns. We can work with this.”

Tony made a pirouette in the air, balancing on his repulsors, as on a surfboard, and beckoned Peter with his hand.  
“Come on, Spidey, let’s try it. We could beat it, focusing on dodging and capture. For a start, I'm distracting, and you are looking closely, analyzing the mechanics of its movements and speed, then bind, not allowing it to shoot through the web, I mean - from the back.”  
And robot’s shoulder guns could rotate to one hundred and eighty degrees - Peter managed to remember.

Stark whistled and beckoned the robot with the famous Morpheus movement. The robot rushed into attack with metallic clanking and squeaking its electric guns. Mr. Stark dodged, dodged and dodged again, completely ignoring the fact that he was not wearing the suit.

“Yahoooo!” He shouted at the next turn, clearly having a lot of fun. The robot was rushing for him by the walls, Tony sliding over like a surfer on waves, the fire of his repulsors noot leaving any visible damage on the surface of the training hall walls. Peter, instead of joining the battle, found himself staring with his mouth open. With the mask on his face, it looked, probably, even more ridiculous. Finally he jumped to the wall and rushed off skipping, trying to get around the robot from behind.

***

“Aren’t we awesome?" Stark asked a rhetorical question with absolute smugness on his face, sitting down onto the defeated robot that was swaddled like a baby into a robust cocoon. "Come on, sit down and give me five. We will trample our enemies under our feet, or, in this case, under our butts, which is, in my opinion, even better.”

Out of breath and worn out, Peter pulled off his mask and collapsed without objection. He high-fived Stark's gloved hand and remained sitting, trying to catch his breath. Stark stayed as well.

The fight had the billionaire's pretty exhausted: his hair was disheveled, the strands sticking to his forehead. Tony tried to blew them off a couple of times, but that did not help much. Tony's shirt was soaked in sweat and clinging to his body, his chest was moving with frequent breaths. This time Peter could see clearly the thin scar in the neckline of Stark's shirt.

"You know, when I'm in full armour these pirouettes and somersaults cost me nothing, not even the slightest physical effort, suit does it for me," He said, resting his palms on his knees and trying to brush off his strands again. “But with four separate parts of the suit, you have to keep the balance. I train that way more often. My robots would not kill me. Well, I mean, when they're not the crazy artificial mind. And being in a bullet-proof armour that gives you an absolute head-start is somehow ... boring?”

Tony Stark was bored. Peter threw his head back and laughed. He had been giving his best, trying to neutralize the robot, which had been actively and very competently distracted. And for Tony Stark such a fight was a warm-up, routine, boring. Peter laughed, and Tony Stark laughed too. He suddenly patted Peter's wet hair and reassuringly slapped his shoulder, leaving his hand on it.

“What do they get for children for good behavior? Ice cream? Pizza? And do you know, little Spiderling, that there’s an excellent movie theater here on the Base? And the room with slot machines, including virtual reality rides. I really do not know everything we have here, it's just Friday was charged with a mission to organize all kinds of possible leisure, as we are located some distance from the city. So, you know, no one would wish to run off every second. So? Ice cream? Milkshake? That's the way I'm trying to say, you were good.”

Tony Stark was smiling encouragingly and quite friendly. Peter forgot how to breathe for a while, from the moment Tony sat next to him and started talking, so disheveled and wet, and when his hand came to rest on Peter's shoulder, his stomach made a somersault and …

How can one react so sharply to a banal human touch?

Peter wished Tony immediately took his hand away, his shoulder was burning like a fire, it seemed he could feel the pleasant roughness of Tony’s fingers through the fabric of his bulletproof, super-protected suit. Peter wished Tony never took his hand away. For him, it all became a little too much. Tony Stark magically, surprisingly smoothly and skillfully maneuvering in the air, Peter’s attempts not to stare at him, but to pursue and neutralize the robot that was constantly fluttering here and there, Stark’s o voice of breathless - interrupted, with hoarseness, the smell of Stark, tenfold stronger, because he was sweating, this scar under his shirt …

Peter closed his eyes. He was terribly afraid that next time he would not even have to fall asleep. Next time he himself, of his own free will, barely ducking under the blanket in the evening, would imagine Tony Stark and voluntarily, would want to touch himself, introducing Tony Stark.

The fuck.  
Fuck-fuck-fuck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm in a dire need of beta for the forth chapter.


End file.
